Farewell
by Sherry
Summary: A strange little... letter from Hermione to the deceased. Highly strange. And yes, the title sucks.


Farewell

- the incredibly fed up Sherry

A/N : It _is_ me, this time... and I am totally fed up with school, work and life in general. So I wrote a pile of trash. Can I beat myself now? Shut up, Taylor.

You can make this out to be a letter to Harry if you like, all you H/H shippers out there. Yes, you too, neutral one. :) But I have a feeling that your numbers are lessening, and more are joining the ranks of the... er...

I know it's a really weird piece, but... well... this is my weird mind, so forgive me... This was a writer's block piece. I'm trying to get on with Black Glass.

Disclaimer: All belong to the Mistress of the Universe.

First of all, I want you to know that I blatantly refuse to say goodbye to you. It sounds too... _final_, and I could never leave you forever. No, instead I'll say farewell for now, and I'll see you again someday. Someday, soon if I'm lucky. I _want_ to forget, want to get all this out of my head, get away from the memories of the day you died. Or did you really die? Are you, as Dumbledore keeps reassuring us, in my heart? I've always been one to follow orders, but I want to listen to my heart, and somehow I feel that I should be hearing your voice, but I don't.

Well, maybe it's buried deep inside me, and will come out... someday. Meanwhile I'm looking for something to assuage the pain - no physical pain, darling - but I'll never forget the look of agony on your face, feeling that - ! (When did I ever call you darling? It sounds so...!) The pain of losing you. The day you died was very horrible. I don't even want to remember that, but forgetting it would mean forgetting you. The enormity of it sometimes... it's so hard to fathom. When someone dies they're not there, right? Then how does one keep loving a memory?

This is what has convinced me that you're still here. In me.

So... wherever you are, take the time to read this. Remember that I've loved and missed you. Can you remember in heaven? I certainly hope so. I want to remember all our time, you and Harry and all of us... I'm writing trash, aren't I? But there are things I have to say, I want to say, that I never got round to telling you, and I regret that.

You loved me, I hope, and I certainly loved you; I want you to know that. Did you know that it's Harry's birthday today? We're together, you know, at your house, the place you used to be, but no one is touching your room. Yet. Would you really mind if Harry slept there? Not that he would replace you; it's just that, well, he's torn up about you... his birthday just isn't the same. It breaks my heart to see him sitting there with a hand to his scar, and I'm sure it would break yours too.

Do you think the practice of sitting by gravesides is a sane thing? Most people don't, you know. I wonder... because your body isn't _you_, somehow, yet it's the only way I can remotely connect to... _you_. I sit at your grave sometimes, and it's lonely. Very, very lonely. I can play the piano, and I recorded a certain piece - just for you. It's - well, I don't know - haunting, I guess. I play it when I'm there, and I feel just like you're sitting beside me, tweaking my hair, talking to me - and then it's just the wind, after all. But do souls ride on the wind?

I don't want this to sound like something out of a ghost story, you know. Not like your ghost is coming out to haunt me. Somehow I wish it would, just to have you near me, you know? It hurts to try and replace you in any way - I loved you almost fiercely. I met a sandy-haired boy who took me out to dinner - no, I wasn't cheating on you, never! - but in the middle of it I had to excuse myself. I found myself back at your graveside, watching as the shadows darkened. No, I didn't cry, but Harry was scandalised to find me fast asleep next to you, your body under this covering of grass - or where I discerned was probably next to you - after searching for me all night. But then, I suppose he understood - I think he might have done the same thing himself.

I know it's horrible, but sometimes I feel like accusing you. Asking you why you had to tear my heart out, why you had to die. Why you had to love me, and have me love you too.

We can't help that though, can we? And I'd rather have loved you and have my heart ripped out than feel a cold apathy towards your death... never! 

Maybe someday you'll take me in your arms again, and everything will be all right - maybe. I want to hold you just once again no matter where you are. Take it as done. Perhaps this time you'll be fragile as china, or maybe like a ghost. I don't know.

Don't blame yourself, anyway - I blame myself, my carelessness in not telling you what I wanted to before you were gone. Thank you very much for being part of me. And I can't contact you, or talk to you in any way - so you must know, must believe that I loved you, no matter how many times I screamed at you. I regret those times, now, every time I think of you. Thank you for loving me. Do you know what I do when I get depressed? I write. I've taken up writing all sorts of weird things. This is one of them - my letter to you. Promise me - promise me you'll never forget me. I'll never forget you.

(That sounds so...! but I mean it. I really do.)

And promise me you won't blame yourself, or Harry - promise me you're safe. Promise me you'll be happy, but think of me sometimes, won't you, darling?

(There I go again.)

If there _is_ life after death, I'll join you someday. And if there isn't, we'll all become just wavering shadows on the edge of eternity, an old dusty room filled with memories and an old piano with your music sheets resting on it. But there will always be someone to open the door and dust off the piano, I hope.

I'm sorry for writing all this drivel, forcing you to read it, forcing you to remember. I'm sorry that I - that I - well... I don't know what, but I'm sorry. Remember me, as the old song went, remember me... I'll be with you in your dreams.

That's it, I suppose. I just want to thank you and apologise, tell you I love you, and then say farewell. Then I'll go down to your grave and cry a little, then I'll go back to Harry and make him celebrate. It's high time he got out of the doldrums a little.

(I'm sure that's what you would have wanted.)

So... farewell. Till we meet again. When I think of you I want to know you're smiling.

Always,

Hermione

She put it on the grave, beside the numerous flowers and ornaments that the grieving students had adorned it with, and left, wiping her tears away almost absent-mindedly, as though she had something else on her mind. Indeed her eyes were glazed over as though she was seeing something inside her head. The little white envelope fluttered in the sudden breeze, weighted down by a single white rose.

Later, in a house far away, a boy and a girl stood by the window, eating cake, and letting memories spiral out of the open window onto the waiting wind.

_Farewell._


End file.
